What was he doing in the Adanac House,

the conjured ideas and the stories

he would recount and regale me

with as I sat on my young backside,

at his feet, staring up at this giant of a man, always

knowing in the back of my mind

that I could never match him

in spirit, endeavour or deed,

indeed as he swam Lake Ontario

as a young man, before the Birmingham Blitz

came calling and the chance to drive

a tram through dust laden

post war streets and roads, psychologically